


if i should fall behind

by redandgold



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Character Study, Future Fic, M/M, Retirement, ish, written by a non-hockey fan i apologise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-09-28 09:23:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10085561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redandgold/pseuds/redandgold
Summary: Sidney's looking for something. He just doesn't know what.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [savedby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/savedby/gifts).



> For one of my favourite people in the whole world, even though she's a Scouser <3 
> 
> A/N: I'M NOT A HOCKEY FAN, I literally wrote this by researching A Lot (sources at the end) so if I made mistakes with play or characterisation or anything pls!!! let me know!! and I'm really sorry!!!!!

  


  


When it's over, he sits on the edge of the ice and draws in a long, hard breath.

_  
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_  
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_\- Former Penguins captain Crosby was spotted back in Canada today. The thirty-five year old called time on his illustrious playing career at the end of this season, a period that spanned over twenty years and included two Olympic Golds, a World Championship, two Stanley Cups, a World Cup, a Conn Smythe Trophy, a -_

  


  


He wakes up on the first day of the season with the irrational idea that he's going to be late for training, hasn't even taped his stick yet, his mind running through the litany of defensive weaknesses that the Hurricanes have. It takes him about two minutes to realise that he's not in Pittsburgh and that he'll never use his stick again. There's a green sign down the road that says _WELCOME TO COLE HARBOR_ and, underneath, _THE HOME OF SIDNEY CROSBY_ in letters that already seem to fade. 

He stays in bed until eleven, marveling - briefly - at the freedom of so small a gesture. Just lies there, doesn't even know what he's thinking about. What is there to think of when there isn't hockey? His fingers itch to do _something_ , like tying up the laces on his skates or fastening his helmet. Things that he's done and hasn't stopped doing since he was seven. 

Seven. Fucking hell, he's known Geno for longer than that.

  


The name lodges in his throat. He hasn't thought of that in a while.

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**i. 2010**

"Hey," you say. Geno looks up at you from where he's reading the papers, his brow furrowed and his mouth pressed into a thin line. He doesn't speak so you don't speak and there's a long, heavy pause while both of you try to work out how to get around this.

"Ilya call you gorillas," he says, finally, a resigned smile tugging at his lips. "Funny think of Sid as gorilla."

You laugh, though it isn't the worst comparison in the world. You'd blitzed them like you hadn't wound up sixth in round robin, beautiful tape-to-tape passes, Jonathan's backhand flick, Brenden sliding it past Nabokov. Almost as if you could be world champions, if only you dared to hope.

He invites you to sit next to him and you do. The bench is cold and bites through your trousers. "I didn't score," you say. You're not sure whether it's a consolation or rebuke.

"Me too," he points out, wry.

There's no one in the street this time of night, and he's so very close to you. You've hugged him on the ice when you've scored goals and all of that, and you've seen him in the showers, but this is - different. This is just Geno, devoid of hockey, tall and sleepy-eyed and here with you.

He leans forward and presses his lips to yours. It's soft and true and takes your breath away and you think - well, you think, which is the mistake you shouldn't have made.

"Geno," you say quietly, drawing back. "I've got training tomorrow."

He's still looking at you even as you turn away. "Yeah," he says. You pretend not to hear the quiver in his voice, the way he tries to hold it still.

  


  


  


  


Mario calls him from time to time. His voice is a little more creaky and he sounds like an old man, which Sid hates a little, because all it does is remind him of what's to come. Already he can't hit a backhand like he used to.

"You should coach," he says, always, and Sid doesn't know how to explain it to him. Hockey's been his life for so long that he wants to step away, but he doesn't know how to because it's all he's ever known. Still he dreams of sliding over the ice, feeling the weight of the puck against the flat of his stick. The unmistakable _swish_ as it hits the back of the net. Hockey isn't coaching, or watching, or broadcasting, it's playing; and someone decided he couldn't do that anymore.

  


  


He spends a few months in Cole Harbour, although the days get longer as time goes on and he finds he needs something else to do than just sit on his ass 'enjoying retirement'. ("Aw, come on," says Ovie, "sitting on your ass is noble pursuit," but he always talked shit anyhow.) Doesn't turn on the TV or read the newspapers to see how the Penguins are doing, because that would just invite memories he doesn't want to have.

He does stop shaving, though. Just in case they're on a win streak.

So when December crosses into January and the wind starts picking up again, he puts a bunch of things into a bag, gets into his Chevy, and drives. He isn't entirely sure where he's going, only that he's going. Which is enough for now.

Through absolutely no plan of his own, he ends up in Rimouski.

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**ii. 2003**

You're fifteen years old and you're small and skinny and people think that you aren't ever going to grow up. Sure, you've only gone and scored seventy-two goals in fifty-seven games, and sure, Wayne Gretzky _\- Wayne Gretzky_ \- has just said that you're the best player he's seen since Mario Lemieux - _Mario Lemieux_ \- but words are words. Nothing more. You've been told about that ever since you first came into the public spotlight: smile at the good folks, rehash whatever cliche you can think of, and move on.

Except -

You find out, very early on, that what people tell you and what people do are very different things. Words come in measures and half-measures, language like _it's possible_ and _we'll have to wait and see_ tempering any ambitions. But out there it's brutal. It's kids hacking at your legs like they're trying to take them off, and their parents yelling things at you that you can't even bring yourself to ask your own. And that tells you something. 

You're going to be the best. Rimouski is one stop on a very long railroad that ends with world championships and glittering medals around your neck. But you're not going to be the best just because you want to be. You're going to be the best because your name is Sidney Crosby, and everyone else has already made up their minds about you.

  


  


  


  


Sid remembers a lot of things - the first time they won the cup, of course, but also little things, like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, shaking that secret serviceman's hand, feeling the shock of the ice against his fingertips when he falls with his gloves off. When a sportsman retires the sudden emptiness is filled, however briefly, by these memories, burning brightly in the dark. As if to say: _don't be sad,_ even though the fact that they exist is. 

He tries very hard not to be. There are things on offer, if only he wants them. And he's already had all of this, anyway, hasn't he? The whole point of living a dream is that no one can take it away even after it's over.

But it's over. That's the problem.

  


  


He drives down the smooth asphalt roads, almost haunting in their familiarity. It's the same route he always had to take for ten years and he figures he could do it blindfolded if they asked him to. The bright glass of the Consol (only it's not called that anymore, is it?) winks at him as he pulls up outside. He still walks the other way to avoid the visitors' locker room, even though there'll be no one in.

Someone told him that they buried his sticks in the foundation, and someone else told him there were eighteen thousand and eighty seven seats in the arena for his number. Sid didn't really pay attention to that sort of stuff because there were always plays and training to think about, but now it leaves a warmth where his heart is.

The ice looks pure and untouched. It isn't the way it's supposed to be and it makes Sid frown a little, twisting his mouth as he remembers how they used to rake across like quicksilver. Crosby and Malkin. 87 and 71. The two-headed monster who never did die.

  


  


  


  


**iii. 2006**

You lose, but for once in your life you aren't thinking about the loss. Your eyes are on the new player and the way he'd moved, like he was born with a sight on goal and a stick in his hand. Gliding forward so smooth it looked like he was walking on water. It's like you've just witnessed something special, something that you aren't going to forget.

"That was a good game, Malkin," you offer afterwards, sticking out a hand for him to shake all formal. He looks at it then rolls his eyes and gives you a hug instead, crushing you between his shoulder pads and his gloves.

"Is Geno," he says, grinning once he lets you go. Like he's reveling in being embarrassingly taller than you. "Thanks, Sid."

"No worries," you find yourself grinning back. "Anything you need. Let me know, yeah?"

"Okay." His words are slow and careful, like he's trying to take the time to pick them out just for you. "Sid?"

You're halfway out already but you turn back to look at him. "Mhm?"

"Is okay I go last?"

Before the game all he'd done was turn to you and said _three years Super League_ , and you'd been so taken aback you'd let him. Flower had stared at you like you were crazy. He was probably the one who'd started that rumour about you killing the last person who messed with your routines.

But the pang of uneasiness that usually came with that hadn't come with Geno. You don't know why; all you know is that you can go out second-to-last if it's him who's behind you.

"Yeah. 'Course it is."

You hum your way up the steps to the showers.

  


  


  


  


Flower's still in Pittsburgh, so Sid hits him up for old time's sake. A broad grin spreads slowly across his face when he answers the door. "Sidney fucking Crosby," he whistles, like he can't quite believe it. "It really is you, huh? You went off the grid after retiring. We thought you'd just stopped existing without the hockey."

Sid laughs even though it hits a little too close to home for him to find it too funny. Flower must have noticed, because he gives Sid a pat on the shoulder and a tilt of the head. "What's up?"

Sid shrugs. "Ah, nothing. Just passing by."

"No you're not." Flower gives him a look. "You're Sid. You don't do things just because. You're probably looking for something, even if it hasn't occurred to you yet."

Sid's lip pulls down slightly, less in annoyance than knowing he's probably right. Instead he says, "how've you been?"

Flower waves a hand around dismissively. "Oh, all right. You know. I take the kids to school. It's nice."

Sid nods without quite understanding. Flower gives him a sly smile. "Besides - isn't there someone else you should be asking about?"

"Who, Tanger?" Sid blinks. "Isn't he in Houston somewhere?"

"Not Tanger," Flower rolls his eyes. "Geno."

There's that moment again. Sid takes in a deep breath and almost forgets to let it go.

  


  


He hits the road again after that, because no matter how long he's retired people in Pittsburgh are still going to slow down and say "hey, aren't you - " it's not something he wants to deal with right now, so he put his things back in the Chevy and fills up the gas.

Then - Detroit.

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**iv. 2009**  


Someone's yelling into your ear. "Did you know," they're saying, "you're the first team to win the Final on the road since 1971?"

You don't hear that. There's nothing in your ears except a low humming that seems to come from your throat. It climbs and climbs until it's ripped out from your mouth in a scream, a _we fucking did it_ scream, a _this is everything_ scream, an _I'm from Nova Scotia I've won the Stanley Cup_ scream. And it's there. It's right there, huge and beautiful. You're racing across the ice, the pain in your knee gone, the pain from last year almost like it had never existed. 

There's a flurry of hands and you shake all of them, still dizzy from the euphoria you suspect will never really go away. Everything is white and black and gold and it sears itself into your brain, this team, _your_ team, the smiles on their faces enough to light up the arena a thousand times over. They're lining up in a bunch and push you towards the centre stage where the trophy waits. "Sidney Crosby," Bettman's saying, "you will be the youngest Captain to hoist the Stanley Cup." You don't hear that either; only your name. 

Maybe you will have bigger victories. Maybe you will win it again. But that doesn't matter now when you have this in your hands, the silver gleaming at you like an old friend. It's a smidgen of relief with which you hold it up, because this has been written down for you all your life - the kid, the next one, the face of modern hockey. Forget that, though. This is for yourself. You're shaking the trophy over your head and it's burning cold. This is for you and your team, Flower and his dumb grin, Max and how serious he looks even when he's delighted, Sergei and his quiet, unyielding presence.

And Geno. Geno who smiles at you from the edge of the group, so bright you think he might burst, like he's looking at two things he loves more than anything in the world, not just one.

  


  


  


  


Colorado is warmer than he remembered, but then he supposes he spent most of his time here on a circle of bloody ice anyway. He pauses outside the arena, squinting at the curved walls. It looks too beige for him to have played his last game in.

There's a game on the next night so he ends up staying to watch. Avalanche versus Jets. It's the first game he's been to since he stopped playing and he almost has to leave at the end of the second period.

You had your time, he wants to tell himself. But everything's nagging at him like a yank on the collar of his jersey. The phone number Flower gave him is still in the pocket of his jeans, crumpled and hidden.

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**v.** **2021**

"You really doing this?"

You shrug. "Kinda have to," you offer a half-grin. "Now that I've told everybody about it."

Geno shakes his head. "Can always stay."

They're chanting your name outside. They're waiting for you outside. Geno's sitting in the changing room in a suit and shoes because he isn't even supposed to be here, really, not since he did the same thing a year ago. But you'd found him lounging around outside your room yesterday night and he'd offered you a dumb grin and a 'want to be here', the 'for you' unspoken but tacked on nevertheless.

"I can't, Geno." You exhale helplessly. "Too many concussions, stuff like that, y'know? They said it's dangerous. I want to go on. You know that."

Of course he does. Of course he knows _you_ and all your intimacies, just the way you know him, and even maybe if something shifted after that non-kiss (that you don't think about, at all, never) he's still your best - 

"Hey." He puts his hand on your shoulder and leans in close, so that his forehead rests on your helmet. "Will be all right."

The way your heart has been jumping all over the place suddenly stills. You nod and look around - the tunnel and the bright ice outside, the extra gear the team has left lying around, the gold and black of the kit.

"I'm going to miss this," you mumble.

I already miss you, you don't add.

  


  


  


  


He doesn't know how long it's been, just him on the road alone. After a while all the cities start to look the same, all the rest stops with the golden arches and pick-up trucks. He turns into San Jose for old times' sake, to pretend that he can feel the Cup in his hands again. To feel on top of the world one last time.

A couple of people seem to recognise him in the cafe he has dinner at, but they don't ask him for an autograph or a photo, which he appreciates. He wolfs down the sandwich and then reaches into his pocket for cash to pay the bill, only he finds the piece of paper instead.

In the hotel he takes it out and presses it flat against the table. His fingers hover above the numbers for an absurdly long time.

"Алло?"

Flower was right, Sid realises all of a sudden, the feeling so sharp it almost makes him put down the phone. He was looking for something, even if he didn't know it. And, as it turns out, he's going in the right direction after all.

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**v** **i. 2016**  


The second time is different. It's more quiet, without the exuberance of greenhorns and rookies; it's more relief that beats a drumbeat through your chest, rather than sheer unfettered delight. You exhale like you're just glad that you won't be a one-hit wonder forever.

The kids who haven't won it before parade the trophy around like it's something they want to hold for the rest of their lives. You don't remember much of the celebrations, just this: the Conn Smythe on one side of you, Geno on the other, his arm wrapped around your waist and twisted into the fabric of your jersey. He doesn't say anything. You don't say anything. All you have - all you need - is him, on the ice, his warmth next to you more than words.

  


  


  


  


Sid knocks on the door and the moment it's answered he begins to talk, like he needs to get everything out before he turns into a chicken and clams up the way he's clammed up for the last god knows how many years. "I know," he says, his breath coming out in clouds of white. "I know I was an idiot. I know I should have said something, done something, kissed you back, whatever. I was scared. I didn't know what was going to happen, how people were going to take it, if our game was going to suffer. And hockey was real important to me, Geno, it was." He looks up, helpless, laid bare. Geno hasn't said a word, he's just leaning against the door frame and staring at him curiously. Sid hasn't seen him in so long and he still looks the same, tall and sleepy-eyed and here with him.

"As it turns out," he finishes, his cheeks burning red hot, "hockey stops being so important after you stop playing, but other things end up mattering more."

"What you trying to say, Sid?" Geno asks, still the epitome of a poker face.

"Fucking hell, Geno, I just bought a plane ticket for no reason and flew fifteen hours sitting next to a crying baby and I'm cold and wet and miserable but I'm here and what do you _think_ I'm trying to - "

Sid would gladly never finish another sentence if it meant Geno kissing him to shut him up all the time. He's put one hand on Sid's cheek and Sid kisses back this time, years too late, reaching up to pull him closer, burying his hands in his hair. Tastes him against his lips, properly this time, soft and true and taking his breath away.

When they finally break apart, Geno's grinning at him. "You worry too much, Crosby," he says.

Sid barely manages a smile. It's the kind where you're not sure if you want to laugh or cry.

"I'll work on it," he promises, and leans in again.

  


  


  


Later, Sid puts on another coat and wanders outside. There's a lake that's frozen over and someone's set up two goalposts on either side, left a couple of sticks and a puck on the bank. He walks over and picks up a stick, sliding his fingers over the grip like he never really stopped holding one.

He treads carefully onto the ice, trying not to lose his balance. Puts the puck squarely between him and the net. Years and years of the same shot come rushing back, the familiar buzz coursing through his veins.

He's seven years old, midway through his first full game, the puck's at his feet and the goal's wide open waiting for him. He closes his eyes. Takes a breath, swings, feels the weight of the puck against the flat of his stick, then the unmistakable _swish_ as it catches the back of the net. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> \- [gorillas quote](https://www.thestar.com/sports/olympics/2011/02/23/canada_crushes_russia_like_gorillas_coming_out_of_a_cage.html) at the 2010 Olympics made me laugh  
> \- [the secret serviceman thing](https://twitter.com/penguins/status/784078841631404034?lang=en) was really cute  
> \- idk where I read the burying Sid's sticks or something in the foundation was from buT I REALLY LIKED THAT! and the capacity thing is 18087 which is so great  
> \- The first game they played together was this [2-1 loss to New Jersey](http://www.hockey-reference.com/boxscores/200610180PIT.html)  
> \- Алло is appaz what they say as greetings in Russia  
> \- I charted it V SPECIFICALLY that he's heading westwards towards Russia HANDS UP IF U NOTICED  
> \- The ending is (stolen??) from [midnight on the halfway line](http://canarycreams.livejournal.com/70389.html), which I remember Julija mentioning as one of the first? favourite? fics of hers and I thought it'd be nice to pay tribute to it! (and it was one of the first and favourites I read too and it's so beautiful so)  
> \- Title from [if I should fall behind](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RmUG1ffgKFw) by Bruce Springsteen, the video version of which is prooobs one of my favourite bruce songs  
> \- I'll love you forever if you leave a comment???  
> ALL THE SHIT I READ THROUGH TO WRITE THIS, plus probably more that I forgot to take down:  
> Primers and things, thank u fandom [x](http://tongueincheeky.livejournal.com/14721.html) [x](http://listography.com/indecent/observations/misc_hockey_links) [x](http://tidal-waves16.livejournal.com/15223.html) [x](http://sociofemme.livejournal.com/509286.html) [x](http://dira.ficlaundering.com/ds/hockey/primer.html) [x](http://thefourthvine.livejournal.com/160117.html) [x](http://missmollyetc.livejournal.com/411149.html) [x](http://pun.livejournal.com/388196.html) [x](http://puckling.dreamwidth.org/71020.html?style=mine) [x](http://tongueincheeky.livejournal.com/14017.html) [x](https://scribblinlenore.dreamwidth.org/421064.html) [x](http://missmollyetc.tumblr.com/post/46654215274/regonym-asked-is-sidney-crosby-actually-a-robot) [x](http://freckledbutt847.livejournal.com/514.html) [x](http://hkafterdark.tumblr.com/post/29612590065/guide-to-hockey-fic)  
> Actual articles, videos etc: [x](http://whirlmagazine.com/pittsburgh-penguins-sidney-crosby-and-evgeni-malkin-strengthen-the-teams-core/) [x](https://www.nhl.com/penguins/news/a-talk-with-crosby-helps-malkin-break-out-of-post-olympic-funk/c-710758) [x](https://www.nhl.com/news/sidney-crosby-100-greatest-nhl-hockey-players/c-285858064) [x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N9UUTqVfBtw) [x](https://youtu.be/pdbUBI6-fBE?t=7m) [x](http://www.si.com/vault/2003/11/10/353302/next-stop-greatness-take-it-from-wayne-gretzky-the-player-with-the-best-chance-to-break-his-scoring-records-is-sidney-crosby-a-16-year-old-center-in-quebec-juniors)  
> \- p much 80% of the sidgeno on ao3 tbh
> 
> FOR JULIJA, who has helped me through so many things and held my hand through so many crises and has always been here for me in the most wonderful way possible. I love you and truly appreciate you and I really hope that this goes at least some way to showing my appreciation, even tho it's probably crap and I should have just written barknapp instead why did i decide this was a good idea @.@. You are an amazing person, just. so amazing and I'm so lucky to count you as a friend. I mean I love carraville w all my heart but I love them even more because it was what brought me to you and I could never thank them enough for that. I could never thank you enough for being such a wonderful friend. LOVE YOU LOTS BABE, MY RIDE OR DIE, MY GUY <333


End file.
